We’re only weeks away from the launch of our Fall 2015 season, but why wait until September? Over the next couple of weeks, we’re giving you an exclusive look at the exciting new books about to land at Melville House–debut novels, major translations, and nonfiction about everything from dog walking to cocktail culture. We’ll feature a different excerpt every day, along with an introduction by our editors. Today’s book is The Reflection by Hugo Wilcken, out September 8 in the US; October 1 in the UK. 

Hugo Wilcken has never visited New York. And yet his new novel, The Reflection is set in its smoky streets in late 1940s, and captures the atmosphere of post-war New York as well as Highsmith or Hitchcock ever did. The outline of the story is simple: Dr Manne is a psychiatrist who is mistaken for the kind of patient he used to treat. But the details are complex and shimmer with mesmerising complications: how did Manne end up in hospital? Why is he believed to be mad? Is pretending to be someone else his only chance for escape? What I loved about Wilcken’s novel is that, as well as being a bloody good literary thriller, it challenges the basic assumptions we make as readers of this genre: that the protagonist is a solid entity and that plot must constantly drive forward. Neither is true in The Reflection, where identities overlap and scenes echo one another, resulting in a series of reflections that show us different aspects of the same story each time. So it’s no surprise that Wilcken’s previous novels were compared to Camus and Dostoevsky; these are comparisons that hold for The Reflection too. Manne puts it best himself in the novel, when he muses over the nature of identity: “The same story, told in the same words. But after a while it isn’t the same…It’s just another performance.”
–Zeljka Marosevic

“David Manne?”

“Speaking.”

“Jeff Speelman here. I guess you may not remember me . . .”

“Why wouldn’t I? How’d you get my number?”

“Looked it up in the phone book.”

“What do you want?”

“It’s about Abby.”

“Jeff, I don’t know what you could possibly say that would interest me. I haven’t seen or spoken to her in . . . it must be a decade now.”

“I know that. You probably haven’t heard that she . . .”

“Wait a second. Slow down. This is pretty weird for me. You popping up out of nowhere like this. I told you I haven’t seen or spoken to Abby since before the war.”

“David, I’m sorry to call up out of the blue like this. Please hear me out. The reason I wanted to get in touch is, well, you may not have heard about Abby’s illness . . .”

“I don’t know anything about it.”

“She was finding it harder and harder to swallow. They diagnosed a tumor in her trachea. About three months ago. She had an operation to have it removed.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I really am. But Abby and I lost touch a long, long time ago. The parting wasn’t exactly friendly. You, of all people, should know that.”

“I do, David. I thought you’d still want to be told, though. Things took a turn for the worse last week. She passed away early Wednesday morning.”

“Good God.”

“Just wanted to let you know what’d happened. Fill you in on the funeral arrangements. In case you wanted to attend. I found your number in the book. I wanted to check I had the right person, right address . . .”

“Sure, sure. Look . . . sorry I was so prickly.”

“Forget it. I understand.”

“Did she . . . um . . .”

“It was peaceful, David. There were some hard times. But in the end she passed away in her sleep. I was there, her mother was there. It was all very peaceful.”

“Good. I mean . . . it’s such a shock. I didn’t even know she was ill.”

“Sorry to give it to you like that.. I just thought that, in spite of everything, you’d probably want to know.”

“I appreciate that.. Not an easy call to make.”

“I’ll send a card with the funeral details. It’s next Tuesday.”

“Okay. I’d like to go.”

“Guess I’ll see you there, then.”

“Guess so. Jeff . . . I’m awfully sorry to hear this. I really am. My condolences. Thanks for calling.”

+

I’d been leaning forward, all tensed up and sweating; now I fell back in my chair. For a while I sat there, gazing at the painting on the wall opposite my desk. I picked up the phone again: “Miss Stearn, I’m not feeling so well. Could you please cancel Mr. Stone this afternoon? Maybe fit him in next Tues- day. I think I have a free hour then.”

“Yes, Doctor. Anything I can do for you?”

“No no. Just a little off-color, that’s all. Think I’ll go home and lie down for a bit. I’ll look in at the end of the day.”

I grabbed my hat and coat, and as I crossed the waiting room, my secretary threw me a peculiar look, almost of horror. I was on the verge of saying something else, but surprised by her expression, I looked away and made my way to the door. I walked down the five flights of stairs to the lobby—not so much for the exercise, more to avoid the elevator operator. He always tried to engage me in small talk, usually on some- thing I knew nothing about, like baseball or movie gossip. I wasn’t in the mood for it.

I was going to hail a cab back to my apartment. I stood at the curb, but then changed my mind and started aimlessly wending through the midafternoon throng. It wasn’t particularly cold out, but the air was crisp. Long fingers of creamy light slipped between the buildings, slanting their way across Park Avenue. Gigantic cloud formations clotted the sky. I walked on, block after block. It was the first time in years that I’d simply wandered the streets on a week- day, without purpose. In a daze, as if I’d just been fired or something.

Many blocks on, I pulled out of my introspection and looked up. I was somewhere in the East Fifties, not far from my apartment. I remembered a nearby café-bar where Abby and I used to meet up. Run by a Frenchman, it had a long zinc bar top and had felt like a Paris café—or at least our idea of one. We’d probably thought we were the height of sophistication drinking there.

Although I lived close by, I hadn’t walked down this street since Abby had left. Strange to see how little had changed. There was the jeweler’s store where I’d once bought Abby a necklace. Opposite, a man was hawking the afternoon papers, next to a cobbler bent over his work. Exactly as I’d left them, as if they’d only just snapped back into action. And yet when I came to where the French café used to be, it had vanished. In its place was an anonymous-looking bar and grill, such as you might find anywhere in the city.

Simply walking through its doors sent a chill of alienation through me—everything inside felt simultaneously familiar and strange. The zinc bar top had been ripped out and re- placed with a bland, laminated counter. Chairs, tables, and decor had all been replaced; the clientele was different. I’d thought Abby and I had first talked about getting married here, but now I wasn’t so sure.

“What’ll it be?”

“Give me a beer.”

As a rule I never drank during the day, but I downed the beer the bartender put before me and quickly ordered another. I gazed through the glass front into the streetscape, washed in the somber colors of a fall afternoon.

The Reflection by Hugo Wilcken

On Sale September 8 in the US; October 1 in the UK.